


The final Blog of Doctor John H. Watson

by DemiDefunct



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, John Watson's Blog, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-25
Updated: 2012-03-25
Packaged: 2017-11-02 12:18:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/368905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemiDefunct/pseuds/DemiDefunct
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Reichenbach, it is time for John to write one more post. On last thing, for Sherlock, on his webpage. All to get the story of his bestfriend, the man who changed his life, brought to (at least some) light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The final Blog of Doctor John H. Watson

**Author's Note:**

> I've never really done this before, so there may be some errors. I've tried to keep it all accurate. Either way, I hope you enjoy.

Life at 221b was never boring in my short time there. With Sherlock about, it was a child’s dream life of playing detective. Solving murders, and saving lives and playing hero.  
                Even in the silent moments, life was never boring. I could watch as all of Sherlock’s imposing height crumpled into the smallest ball in his leather chair as crap-telly played; or when he paced about, anxious for a murder case to solve.   
                Even when he threw a tantrum, sulked, or even in the slightest resembled a child, I would be fascinated. I’d bloody well get angry, but I’d be just as fascinated as to how he could possibly be a grown man, or even a genius.  
                The man brought so much action to my life, and I’d felt at home in only my first day in the flat.  
  
                So when… He jumped you know. Four stories off the roof of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, down onto the pavement below...  
  
                The case we’d been working on was near identical to Hansel and Gretel. A brother and sister vanished, out of the blue, on the last day of school before break. Kidnapped.  
                It started out with the huge ‘Moriarty’ case, you’d have seen it. James Moriarty had broken into 3 places, at one time, with nothing but some computer coding. As you know, he was miraculously not found guilty for it. And you will have read that it was Sherlock’s doing. I won’t say what you should or shouldn’t believe. But no one, _no one_ will convince me Sherlock was a fake and that ‘Richard Brook’ was only an actor.  
  
                Well after that, we received the case about the missing children. When we went to the school, to investigate… Well, Sherlock came off a bit more rude than usual. He yelled at a woman just so she would speak faster! Made her feel as though he believed she was to blame. And then as soon as she spoke, he walked off, thrilled.   
                Apparently, he’d found an envelope in the girls room, containing a book of the Brothers’ Grimm’s Fairytales. And in the boys he’d found a trail of linseed oil. The boy, it seems, was quite the little detective himself and had been able to recognize that the shadow approaching his room had not been one he had known. And not one he should trust.  
                I met Sherlock back at the lab, where he was studying the footprints for traces of where the man may have been. When I noticed the photograph of the envelope he’d found, it had reminded me what I’d found that morning, in front of the flat. An identical envelope, filled with breadcrumbs. Turns out, Moriarty had come by the flat and told him something about every fairytale needing a villain, just after his court case. And that set his mind whirling. The kidnapper had been at an old sweets factory!  
                Sherlock contacted his group of informers, and we headed to the Scotland Yard to let them know what he’d found. Within moments, he was being texted, near constantly, images and locations. When he found one that fit, we were off.  
                The children had in fact been brought to the abandoned sweets factory, and had been poisoned with mercury. We’d only just missed the kidnapper.  
  
                And all in the meantime, our flat had been surrounded with top of line, international assassins. Those who were after the code Moriarty was selling. Literally, surrounded! They’d moved in all around our street, with a camera planted in our flat, which we found later…  
But back to the children.  
  
                We were able to go in and question the little girl. Sherlock even accepted to not act as himself for that. But as soon as we walked in, and he began to speak… Well the girl screamed. She pointed at Sherlock and _screamed_ , as if he’d had anything to do with it.  
                Clearly, we were ushered out of the room, shocked. We headed back to our flat. And Mrs. Hudson gave us another envelope. It had come earlier in the day, and she’d forgotten until that point. A burnt gingerbread man. Sherlock muttered something about “burnt to a crisp”.  
                  
                It wasn’t long after that Lestrade arrived. Apparently people back at the station were suspicious for him having solved this all from a footprint. If Sherlock were anyone else… Well, I’d have been suspicious too. But I knew him. He could not, no; he _would not_ have done something like that. Lestrade managed to leave, letting us be for a short time.  
                However, it was short-lived. The whole of the force, it seemed, had come to take him in. So willing to believe he was at fault. Even the chief inspector had come. They got Sherlock in cuffs, and well, the inspector went on about him being a mad man. It was so… It infuriated me.   
                No one… Not one single person should ever speak ill of Sherlock about me. He really was not a mad man, as I once called him, back when I first met him. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand why people would do anything. He really just, didn’t care. He was so detached and so… Well…  
                Apparently chinning the Chief Inspector lands you in cuffs, as well. He really deserved it though. I wasn’t expecting for Sherlock to take a gun and have us make a get-away. Least of all, not with that gun pointed at my skull. He gave up the gun after just a short time.  
                When we stopped to catch my breath, he came up with a plan. He told me how the assassins were keeping him from dying. He’d already been saved by one of them, and now one was following us.  
                And so with his plan, there we were, handcuffed to one another, jumping in front of a moving double-decker, in the heart of London. I admit, it was terrifying. But after just seconds, we were being tackled out of the way of the vehicle.  
                A quick examination confirmed that they were after Moriarty’s code. And then, our savior had been shot dead before us.  
  
                Shortly after, we found ourselves breaking into a reporter’s flat. We’d gotten the cuffs off, and sat in the dark for her to arrive, to tell his story. Truly, she didn’t seem very willing to help us, and when we asked who Richard Brook was, and where she’d gotten her story… Well, he showed up. James Moriarty. _Moriarty_ had walked right into her flat.   
                They gave us a story. How Richard Brook had been hired by Sherlock, had been told that Sherlock could have him found not guilty. How it was all just a lie, a way to make Sherlock look smart. I refused to believe it. The man had strapped a bomb to me. He’d broken in and sat with the royal jewels. Even with the credentials they showed me, I refused to believe it.  
  
                Our meeting was short. ‘Richard Brook’, or Moriarty, whatever you want to call the blasted man, got away, and we left. Not after Kitty’s endearing words, which I imagine she stole from Sherlock at some point, “You. Repel. Me.”  
  
                We ended our night in the lab at St. Bart’s. Sherlock was busy thinking the whole time. I nodded off for a bit, only to wake to a call. Mrs. Hudson had been shot! I told this to Sherlock, but he refused to come. I was so… So incredibly furious with him in that moment. He was acting like a machine. He’d beat a man within an inch of his life for having laid a finger on her. And now he did not seem to care! I didn’t understand him.  
                So I left and caught a cab back to 221b. I was entirely shocked to see Mrs. Hudson perfectly fine and healthy, standing in the foray, offering a cold drink to the man working on the building.  And it hit me at that moment. Sherlock wasn’t safe…  
                I ran back out to fetch another cab, as quickly as possible. How had I not realized that he was possibly up to something? Any other time, and he would have run back to Baker Street at just the mention of anyone hurting our land-lady.  
                The whole ride back to the hospital was hell. What if Moriarty had come? What if it was already too late? What if they were busy playing their little games with each other?  Oh, I would have gladly… Let’s not talk about what I’d have done.  
                As the cab pulled up, Sherlock called me. I was ready to run back inside but he stopped me. Made me walk back to where I’d been. And oh, Oh god. God, he was on the ledge…  
                …He’d said the call was his note. And then he was gone. Just like that. I ran, I tried, I can’t even…  
  
                His funeral was quiet. Small. His mother had even made a small show. It had been decided to leave no epitaph on his headstone, only his name. I visit with Mrs. Hudson as often as I can bear it. He was my best friend, but even so, I can’t bear to look at that place and see where he lays now. I’ve even moved out of 221b…  
                But one thing… One thing he said, before he… left. Well, it stuck with me. He told me to tell everyone that what he was, the papers got right. That he was a fake. And no matter what he wanted of me, I cannot do that.  
                I knew Sherlock, better than anyone else did. He did not fool me. Sherlock was, in every way, real. He was brilliant, and fascinating, and one of the best… No, _the_ best man I have ever had the privilege of knowing.  
  
                Take what you will out of this; That Sherlock was a real, or a fraud, that he was the maddest, or sanest man to ever exist. I just hope that this at least clears up a few things about his death. He would not have jumped without reason. He may have gotten bored easily, but I do not believe the man to have been so bored to invent a case. And most definitely not cowardly enough to take his own life for anyone thinking he was not what he was.  
  
  
                I believed, and always will believe in Sherlock Holmes.  
  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
                John stared at what he had written, a fresh set of tears escaping down his cheeks. This was not his story. This was, as best as he could put it, the story of Sherlock Holmes. His best friend, his companion. The man who had made his life so much better. The only person who had been able to bring all that meaning back, that he had lost once he’d been discharged from the military.  
                He was left now, without that action, the maniac adventure, dull. He was not sure how he would recover from that. Not quite sure how he was going to deal with that blasted limp again. The very same one that Sherlock had managed to erase. And the same one he brought back.  
  
                Well, it was time to get this story out there, he supposed. But still he faltered, looking about his new flat. It reminded him nothing of Sherlock. And compared to 221b, it was empty. Not lived in. And he supposed that was too true now.   
                His eyes raked back to the computer. He re-read his words, another set of fresh tears betraying his cold expression. And then it was published, with a few simple clicks of the touch-pad. Lestrade, Molly, everyone, they would know his views. …And Stamford. Fuck Stamford for ever introducing him to that brilliant, sociopathic genius. Fuck Stamford for his life being twisted and mutilated into something he didn’t understand. And finally, fuck Sherlock for ripping his heart out of his chest.  
                  
                …No. He could never really blame the man for that. He was angry, so angry that he’d been left behind. But he was just thankful for ever having met anyone who could change his life so drastically. He was thankful for being the one who was allowed to tell this story. Despite how deeply it struck some chord deep in him.  
  
                John, however large, or small, loved Sherlock. His best friend. And he really would, for all time, believe in the man.  
  
                John Hamish Watson _believed_ in Sherlock Holmes. The most human, human being he’d ever had the grace of meeting and knowing.


End file.
